Chapter 24 Friends
“FRIENDS”
ALICE
“He’s such a freaking jerk,” I practically growl into the phone. “He practically threw a quarter at me yesterday, and then, in the most asshole-ish manner possible, told me to get out of his sight.”
I slam my front door shut with my foot and stomp across the creaky floors to the kitchen, heavy tote slung over my shoulder. My best friend sighs on the other end of the phone.
“Wait, is this the same guy that tackled you like a linebacker at the grocery store?” Steph asks.
“What? No, that’s Harley. Harley’s my friend.
” My lips mash together at the not-totally-a-lie-but-kind-of-a-lie statement.
I switch from headphones to speaker, throwing my phone onto the counter so I can start putting away groceries.
“And he didn’t tackle me. We ran into each other. Also, that happened over a month ago.”
“Sorry, I’m all over the place. I’ll get everyone straight once I put faces to names when we visit this weekend,” she says. “You know what would help, though? You actually taking a picture of yourself and the new friends you’re replacing us with.”
“Steph.”
“Yeah, that was out of pocket. I know we’re irreplaceable.” She chuckles. “But back to your impassioned recount of events. Please continue.”
“This guy is the tailor who hemmed my dress for the gala…” I huff and lean on the counter, my elbows digging into the black marble.
Again, it’s a small fib. A peek at the truth, but not the full thing.
I need to ease Steph and Erica into this craziness.
My palms squish my cheeks as I mutter, “Sometimes I see him around town. It’s a small town. ”
“Do we know this hot tailor’s name?”
My hands fall from my face and slap onto the counter. “I didn’t say he was hot.”
“You didn’t have to. You never tell us anything about anyone anymore. Either he’s a ‘first prize smoked brisket at the county fair’ piece of meat hot and you feel weird about finding someone attractive again, or he’s the literal devil incarnate,” Steph says.
“Yeah, your analogies still don’t land the way you want them to,” I mutter, suddenly feeling a little too exposed. The annoying truth of the matter is that Ori is both of those things. And it’s unbelievably frustrating.
“Whatever,” Steph chides with affection. “I have to admit, it’s nice to hear you so lively. There’s a lightness to your voice that I haven’t heard in a while. Even if you’re raging about some guy—who isn’t attractive—you sound happier.”
She pauses, and I want to open my mouth to speak, but I can’t get my lips to part, so she continues.
“I guess I was wrong. Moving to Meadowbrook was the thing to get you out of your funk and bring back the old Alice.”
Wrong. I think, immediately. It’s not the town that has let this tiny stream of light into my dark mind; it’s the people within it.
And then resentment slaps me across the face.
Is that how they really see this phase of my life? A funk?
I’ve taken a daily cocktail of anti-depressants for over a year. It’s not a funk.
My husband died. And every day since, it’s become clearer that it will never be a funk. There’s no going back to the old me.
I clear my throat. “I finished another piece for the gallery.”
“Oil or acrylic?” Steph asks, easily switching to business mode.
“I have been doing most of them in acrylic since we don’t have enough time to properly dry and varnish oils,” I say.
“True. But I’d make it work. People don’t need to get so close to the paintings that their nose comes away stained.” I can hear her eye roll. “I’m excited to see them.”
“Hopefully they don’t disappoint.”
“Alice, you couldn’t disappoint me,” Steph says.
“Sure,” I say, though I know it’s not true. “I’m going to put away groceries and clean the house now. I have company coming and I need to sweep the cobwebs off the molding in the guest room.”
Steph snorts. “We’ll text you the train times.”
“You sneaky bitch!” Erica screams from down the hall, except it’s that squeal-scream you make when you’re outraged in the best way.
Steph’s black brows rise to her hairline as she and I each hook a corner of the fitted sheet over their bed.
“You didn’t say you were painting yourself!” Erica continues, though now she’s huffing at us from the doorway of the guest room. “This is an extremely important development. Who are the people you painted yourself with? I need answers, Alice. A.S.A.P.”
My left eye twitches as I run my hand along the sheet’s edge to the next corner. “Can we not talk in all-caps, please?”
“Sorry,” Erica whispers dramatically. “But you literally never paint yourself or people you know. That’s part of the whole schtick you went viral for. People are going to flip when they find out.”
The fitted sheet snaps into place as we hook the other two corners into place.
“People aren’t going to flip because these are only for the gallery. I’m not making prints of these,” I say.
“You’re not?” Steph says, reaching up to adjust her long brown ponytail. “That’s news to me.”
I shrug, avoiding their prying expressions by grabbing the top sheet. I flick it out of its fold, and the fabric puffs out over the bed, slowly descending in a bubble.
“This collection’s personal,” I murmur. “I’m calling it ‘100’.”
There’s a quiet beat as they process the meaning behind the name—they know it’s importance.
It took me a while to commit to it, but after Harley and Jessa slept over the night of my anniversary, I couldn’t deny it anymore.
My previous collections were all ten to twenty pieces inspired by internet strangers’ bearing their hearts to me in an anonymous submission form. Their most vulnerable secrets, fears, and stories were cherry-picked by me and turned into something beautifully cathartic.
Each exhibition was labeled by the number lot featured: 1-20, 21-40, 41-55, 56-70, 71-80, 81-90, 91-99. Seven collections with ninety-nine portraits of strangers’ pain, and now, an eighth solely dedicated to portraits of my own.
I’m number 100.
Steph helps me fold over the top sheet at the head of the bed, and we repeat the process for a thin quilt over that.
“Steph, come see. They’re amazing,” Eric says, much less dramatically, once we’re done.
“Okay.” Steph sighs. “Alice?”
“I’ll be right there,” I say, tossing a freshly covered pillow onto the bed as they patter down the hall.
Once they’re out of earshot, I fall onto the bed. My lids fall too, right to my cheeks, blanketing my irises in darkness. I hold them there—one, two, three seconds—before snapping them open and forcing myself to my studio.
Steph is staring at the latest piece I’ve finished, still perched on the easel, when I walk in.
It’s of Harley, Jessa, and me wrapped together in our pillow fort cuddle pile.
Lemon cake is half eaten in the corner, where the coffee table cuts into view.
I’m at the center, of course, serene and tortured.
The pinch in my brow could be taken either way.
Am I lost in a dream or caught in a nightmare?
Can it be both?
“Who are they?” Steph asks. Her arms cross over her chest as she turns to face me. “They’re in all the others on the drying rack too.”
I run my tongue over my teeth before answering. “My new friends.”
“Friends. Right.”
My phone decides to buzz at that exact moment, three rapid notifications in my back pocket.
Want to come over tomorrow night? The heatwave is supposed to break.
HARLEY
And I want to cuddle you around a fire.
HARLEY
Jessa says we can make s’mores.
HARLEY
My friends are visiting this weekend.
What??? Why didn’t you tell us?
HARLEY
I thought I did the other day. Maybe you were too distracted by your book.
Hmm. Very possible.
HARLEY
Bring them over. I want to meet them.
HARLEY
We can make an afternoon of it.
HARLEY
Jessa says she’ll fire up the grill. She’s a pro.
HARLEY
What about Ori? You guys can come here instead, so we don’t get in his way.
He… went home this weekend.
HARLEY
Bring them over. It’ll be fun.
HARLEY
“Earth to Alice,” Erica croons. Her short, bleached-blonde hair fills my periphery as she leans over my shoulder. “Who ya’ texting? Ooo, it’s one of the friends.”
“You want to meet them?” I ask. “They invited us over for a barbecue and s’mores.”
They both stare at me as if I’m stupid for asking.